


When 'Baby A' Grew Up: London

by seekeronthepath



Series: When 'Baby A' Grew Up [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Gen, Genderqueer Crowley (Good Omens), Nanny Crowley (Good Omens), Reunion, Thad Dowling is a heteronormative sexist asshole, Warlock Dowling is genderqueer, when Warlock Dowling grows up
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-18
Updated: 2019-08-08
Packaged: 2020-06-30 10:57:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 8,770
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19851724
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seekeronthepath/pseuds/seekeronthepath
Summary: When Warlock Dowling is eighteen, he decides to go to England for a gap year (inspired, not a little, by his fond memories of Nanny Ashtoreth).





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: oblique mentions of sexist behaviour

Warlock Dowling had just turned eighteen, and he had just graduated high school. In a year (he’d persuaded his dad that he should do a gap year, and his dad had said stupid things about ‘sowing his wild oats’ and agreed), he was going to start college at Yale and study business. At least, that’s what he was supposed to do.

Warlock, however, was not interested in what he was supposed to do. He wanted to study entomology at Oxford. Or at least _near_ Oxford. That’s where he grew up, you see. His family moved back to America after he nearly probably got kidnapped in Israel when he was eleven, but he was born in England, and he grew up in England, and the time he’d spent at boarding school in America didn’t count, because boarding school was stupid.

So now Warlock was going through his parents' old paperwork, trying to find information about the place he grew up. The weird little nuns' hospital where he was born. The towns they used to go on excursions to. And (he hoped), his Nanny Ashtoreth, who had looked after him all the way until he was ten and Dad put his foot down.

Honestly, Warlock didn’t think he’d find anything about Nanny Ashtoreth, even though she’d been his nanny for nearly a decade. She just wasn’t the sort of person you had paperwork about, and besides, no one else seemed to remember anything unusual about her, which was just impossible.

Well.

Impossible if you weren’t Nanny, anyway.

The thing was, Nanny did impossible things all the time, so long as you weren’t looking. There was always a spare seat on the bus when you were with Nanny, and no queue for ice cream, and no-one noticed when you poked things that you weren’t supposed to touch. Nanny used to say that the world would bend to your will so long as you believed it would, and that he had the power to make anything happen just by wanting it, but he was pretty sure that was just Nanny. 

(One time, in that awful year after Nanny left and before he started boarding school, when his mom was trying to pretend she liked looking after him when really she just wanted to distract him long enough for her to do whatever _she_ wanted, Warlock had seen Mary Poppins. And it was so weird, because Warlock was _sure_ Nanny could have done all those things if she wanted to - sliding up bannisters and dancing on roofs and jumping into chalk drawings - except that why would Nanny want to do silly things like that? It was all backwards, like if Brother Francis was Nanny instead.)

Nanny used to say strange things like that all the time. It had taken years for him to figure out what she _really_ meant with all her stuff about destroying the world and crushing his enemies under his heels and being the bane of humanity, but it was sort of good advice if you looked at it sideways and tilted your head. (Especially if you imagined you were Brother Francis while you thought about it.) Nanny taught him that his actions had consequences, and he could change things if he tried to, and just because he was a kid didn’t mean he was powerless or stupid. And just because other people were older didn’t mean they were right.

And it helped. Especially when he went to boarding school. When his dad somehow got everyone to call him Lockie instead of his real name, and the gym teacher used to say he was pathetic because he didn’t like running, and everyone thought he was weird because he knew all about bugs and organs and poisons and things. At night he’d tell himself that when he came into his full power he would crush them all, and then in the morning he’d sneak out and yell at the roses near the car park and feel better.

And then everyone got stupid about girls and it was the _worst_ . They talked about girls like Nanny used to talk about everyone, except Nanny didn’t mean it and they _did_. 

(Warlock remembered when he was eight and he’d pulled a girl’s ponytail at the playground because it looked fun to pull and maybe she’d play with him if he made her pay attention. Nanny had given him such a Look when he did that, the Look she gave people who were stupid and rude, and she’d told him that if he wanted to make people do things, he had to either use his infernal power or manipulate them, and manipulating them meant paying attention to what they wanted. And _then_ she’d made him spend the afternoon in the garden, and Brother Francis had called birds down to their hands - he said it was the birdseed, but Warlock had never been able to do it like Brother Francis had - and talked about respecting every living creature and using his words.)

Warlock was actually pretty good at talking to girls, when the school did things with the girls boarding school down the road, but it was just because he didn’t assume that girls liked girly things, and treated them the way Nanny expected the staff to treat people. 

(Once, he’d seen one of the security guards push one of the maids against a wall, and Nanny had given him a Look, and then Brother Francis was there all of a sudden and he got Warlock to help him get the maid a cup of tea, and by the time they finished the security guard had disappeared and Warlock never saw him again. And once one of the adults at his birthday party had been talking and talking to a waiter, and Brother Francis had told her to go home and sober up and she _did_ , and Nanny had muttered that there was no reason for that sort of behaviour and all the adults got weird for the rest of the afternoon.)

What Warlock _wasn’t_ good at was pretending he wanted to stare at girls in their underwear, or make out with them in the backseat, or any of that. He knew all about it - Nanny answered _all_ of his questions, and so did Brother Francis, actually - but he’d much rather talk to them, if they were sensible, and if they weren’t, then didn’t want to hang out with them at all.

A couple of years ago, his dad had started saying stupid things about Making Him a Real Man, so he’d pretended to be interested in hunting, which he wasn’t really, but at least learning to use a gun was better than his dad’s weird opinions about girls, and he got to see how all that anatomy stuff worked on an animal that was just alive, which wasn’t so bad, even if Brother Francis wouldn’t have approved of killing Sister Deer. (But he made sure they ate it afterwards, so it wasn’t _so_ bad, right? Predators happened, and humans were always predators.)

And now he was going to go to England, and visit anatomy museums and tell people his name was Warlock, and only talk to girls if they were sensible and interesting, and grow his hair, and wear what he liked, and spend less money than his dad expected him to so he could put the rest aside just in case. 

And maybe, if he was lucky, he might get to talk to Nanny Ashtoreth. At least once.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's quite possible I'll add extra chapters to cover Warlock getting back in contact with Nanny, but I think this also stands on its own.
> 
> I haven't decided what Warlock's approach to gender/sexuality is, but he definitely is not interested in living up to his father's dreams of a "male boy son". 
> 
> Let me know what you think!


	2. Chapter 2

In the end, Warlock _did_ actually find a phone number for Nanny Ashtoreth. (And when he thought about it, he could remember her carrying a phone, in case of emergencies. Not that emergencies ever happened to Nanny. _She_ happened to emergencies. Like when he fell off his bike and there was blood everywhere and his leg hurt so much he thought he must have broken it, except when she finished cleaning him up there was only a graze on his knee.) But then he had to decide what to do with it.

He could call her. But he hated calling people, and what if it wasn’t her? It was supposed to be more polite. But…

Warlock spent about a week going back and forth about it, and finally gave up and sent a text message:

_My name is Warlock Dowling, and I’m trying to get in touch with a Ms Ashtoreth. Is this still her number?_

There was no reply at first, which was kind of upsetting, but then Warlock realised it was 3am in the UK. Which is why it was weird when half an hour later, someone _did_ reply.

**It’s been quite a few years since anyone called me Ashtoreth. What can I do for you, Warlock?**

_Should I call you something else instead? I don’t mind. It’s always annoying when people don’t use your proper name._

_I’m coming to England for a gap year before I start college - we moved to America when I was eleven - and I was hoping maybe I could talk to you sometime? If you do that sort of thing with your kids, after they grow up._

In stories, there were always rules about these things, after all. And Nanny may have taught him not to believe stories because they were the lies people told themselves, but Brother Francis had always said that every lie had a grain of truth in it. And besides, it made _sense_ that they would have some sort of magic rules. They were like that.

**I go by Crowley, most of the time, but you can call me Ashtoreth if you like. It’s as much my name as anything is. Why do you want to talk to your old nanny?**

Warlock rolled his eyes. Crowley was kind of a strange name, but only because he was used to thinking of Nanny as Ashtoreth instead. But she’d never been the sort of person who got _old_.

_You’re more than just a NANNY. I mean, I don’t know if that’s how you look after all your kids, but you were special. The years you were looking after me were the best years of my life, and I want to say thank you._

It hadn’t been easy to write it all out (even if it was only part of the truth), and it didn’t get any easier when there was a full ten minutes before he got a reply.

**That’s very sweet of you, my dear. And as a matter of fact, I’m not a nanny anymore. You were my last child but one, and he didn’t really need me at all.**

_That_ was weirder than thinking of Nanny as old. ‘Nanny’ is just...what she _was_. But maybe that meant she’d be more likely to meet him?

_I bet he was really lucky to have you anyway. Does that mean you’re retired now?_

**In a way**

What would Nanny do if she was retired? Warlock couldn’t imagine it. Except for one thing.

_How’s Brother Francis? Has he changed his nam _e too?_ _

There was another long pause. This was starting to be rather fun, actually. He was pretty sure he was surprising Nanny a bit with how much he’d figured out.

**And why would I know what happened to him?**

Warlock grinned to himself. 

_Because he’s special, like you, and he arrived the same time and left the same time, and he was your favourite person._

**Special? What on earth do you mean by that, dear?**

_You know. He could do impossible things. I bet he’s not always a gardener, is he?_

There was another long delay. 

(Meanwhile, in a second-hand bookshop in Soho, a demon was sputtering and gesticulating wildly at an angel, who was quite put out to be distracted from an adventure story he was trying to get the hang of, but happily conceded that it was lovely to hear from the young lad, wasn’t it, and it would be nice to see how he turned out.)

**You are entirely too observant, Warlock, but I suppose that’s my own fault for teaching you to pay attention. He goes by Aziraphale, and he is not a gardener. He owns a shop full of books he doesn’t want to sell.**

_Would you tell him I said hello next time you see him?_

**That might take a long time**

Warlock laughed. The only way Nanny didn’t see Brother Francis - Aziraphale - _all_ the time is if they hadn't been friends at all, which was nonsense.

_Tomorrow, then_

**That's enough of your cheek, lad. I'll pass the message on when the time comes, and that's all there is to say on the matter**

The scold had Warlock ducking his head automatically - Nanny had always said that one day he would command all things, even her, and she would always listen if he had a proper argument to make, but in the meantime he had better listen to her and be polite.

_Sorry, Nanny. You were always best friends, that's all. Do you think I could visit his shop someday, when I'm in England, and see you both?_

_If it's not against the rules, that is_

(In stories about people like Nanny Ashtoreth and Brother Francis, they didn’t come back after they changed things. But when he'd found the phone number, long after everyone else had forgotten that there was anything unusual about his childhood nanny, he'd thought that maybe it meant he was allowed to find them after all.[1])

[1] As a matter of fact, Warlock finding Crowley's phone number WAS a sign of something special, but it had nothing to do with rules. Ten years of an angel and a demon believing you are capable of shaping the world to your will makes a metaphysical impression, and there was nothing Warlock believed as strongly as Crowley being _his_ Nanny Ashtoreth. Simply put, Warlock was able to get in touch with Crowley because he couldn't believe that he wouldn't.

**And since when did I teach you to pay attention to rules?**

**I’ll warn you, we both look quite different these days**

_Not STUPID rules, but things like ‘don’t jump off the roof’. Besides, one shows appreciation for one’s associates by indulging their preferred styles of interaction. And Brother Francis always said to ask nicely and pay attention. And I don’t want to get you in trouble_

_It’s okay if you look different. I don’t really look the same either._

Mainly because he was older now, but Warlock hoped that once he was in England he would look even _more_ different. He wasn’t sure what kind of different, but ‘different’ was a must.

**You aren’t any trouble, my dear. And of course you look different - children do grow up, after all, and you must be nearly full-grown by now**

**I look like a man at the moment, and I dress very differently. You might find it rather startling**

Oh. That was...quite a lot of things to think about. ‘Look like a man’, for starters. Of course Nanny had always said that personal identity was a fragile facade over the fundamental sameness of being pathetic sacks of flesh and bones, but it was different to think of _Nanny_ that way too. Did she mean that she wasn’t really a man, or had she only looked like a woman before? The thought made something squirm in Warlock’s gut, and he wasn’t quite sure if it was a hopeful squirm like earthworms or a dangerous squirm like maggots, but...Nanny was Nanny. Even if she was something else now. Or he. 

_Should I think of you as ‘he’ now? Is that why you changed your name to Crowley? Is Aziraphale a man too? Or did he change as well?_

**Aziraphale has always found it easier to communicate ‘Brother’ to other people than ‘Sibling of Indeterminate Gender’ - it takes less time. Calling him a man is close enough**

**It doesn’t bother me what pronouns you use for me; one is as good as another. And I was called Crowley long before I was called Ashtoreth**

The squirm in Warlock’s belly had turned into a whole worm farm now. It was very different from how his Dad and everyone at school did things. He swallowed hard, his fingers feeling thick and clumsy as he replied.

_That sounds nice, not really minding. I’d like it if I was like that._

**Well, what have I taught you about reshaping the world according to your will? If you don’t want to bother with gender, then don’t**

Warlock blinked hard, swallowing around the lump in his throat.

_Thanks, Nanny_

_Sorry. Crowley_

**You, my dear little hellspawn, can call me Nanny whenever you want**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hopefully the formatting wasn't too confusing. We may actually get the meeting in the next chapter, I think.
> 
> Thank you so much for your comments! They've been super encouraging


	3. An Interlude in Soho

Meanwhile, in Soho, a demon was having a bit of a crisis. “I can’t believe we didn’t check on him! ...her. Them. Whatever.”

“You know what Adam said,” an angel pointed out primly. “No more messing them about.”

The demon rolled his eyes so hard his shoulders moved. “Oh yeah, sure, for  _ ordinary _ people, but we messed Warlock about so much that it would practically be  _ un- _ messing him to interfere. Look at this!” He thrust his phone in front of the angel’s face, scrolling up to that bit about rules. “He’s  _ quoting _ us, for Satan’s sake. He worked out you were in disguise! He wants to visit us! Here! In bloody Soho!”

The angel took the phone and skimmed through the conversation, only fumbling a little with the very modern technology. “Well isn’t that lovely,” he exclaimed, charmed. “He seems like he’s grown up into a wonderful young person.” He gave the demon a fond smile, his eyes twinkling. “And it sounds like you’d enjoy seeing him.”

“Dunno if he’d enjoy seeing  _ me _ ,” the demon muttered gloomily, gesturing to his general appearance. “This isn’t exactly a tweed suit.” [1]

[1] Insofar as the outfit covered the demon’s skin from his neck to his wrists to his ankles, consisted of separate garments worn on his torso and legs, and had a jacket, it bore more resemblance to a tweed suit than many outfits humans have worn over the millennia. Insofar as the open jacket revealed a low-cut waistcoat over a long-sleeved T-shirt and his legs were covered by black jeans so tightly fitted they took ten minutes to put on without magical assistance, the demon was correct that the outfit was not like a tweed suit at all.

“But your face is the same as it ever was, my dear,” the angel pointed out. “Lipstick and a different hairstyle can’t change that. He’ll probably have a harder time recognising  _ me _ .”

The demon threw up his hands, dropping down onto a convenient sofa and sprawling over the cushions. “So we’re inviting him, then?”

The angel’s fingers brushed against the demon’s as he gave the phone back. “Of course we are.”


	4. Chapter 4

On a sunny day at the end of July, Warlock arrived at the BWI Marshall airport in Washington D.C. with a large suitcase, a medium-sized backpack, and an unfortunate case of nerves. He’d travelled internationally before,  _ obviously _ , but it wasn’t Customs that he was nervous about. 

After a hellish[1] amount of queueing (which he endured as a matter of principle, because his dad would have insisted on special treatment), he ended up in the shopping area and found himself drifting in the direction of a clothing shop. (A stupidly expensive clothing shop, but he was used to that and he still had a credit card from his dad with a stupidly high limit, so that was okay.) 

[1] Quite literally, as a matter of fact. Crowley was extremely proud of airports.

Warlock stopped outside the shop window to check his phone, and definitely not to look at anything on display. A minute later, a shiver reminded him that despite the summer temperatures outside, he was going to be in artificially cool air until he got out of Heathrow airport, and he must have accidentally left his sports jacket from school on his bed at home. So of course he had to go in and buy something, and he dutifully looked at all of the sweaters and cardigans, then impulsively bought a big soft grey thing that looked like a cross between a poncho and a turtleneck and left the shape of the torso underneath completely ambiguous.

(It was a good thing it was meant to be so loose, really, because he couldn't bear to try it on in the shop, and he spent the next five minutes walking around very quickly and holding the shopping bag like there was a bomb inside. But then he hid in a bathroom and put it on and promptly decided that indeterminate shapeless grey things were the best thing ever.)

After that he bought a puzzle book from the newsagents (he always got a puzzle book when he was flying places) and a strawberry milkshake from a nearby cafe, just because his dad didn't approve of them, and by the time he finished it, it was nearly almost time to go to his departure gate and wait for his plane to land.

The trip was boring, because boredom was a fundamental quality of commercial air travel [2], but it was still a  _ little _ bit exciting because of the people who would be meeting him when he landed. (After some discussion, Nanny had insisted that he stay at Brother Francis' bookshop for a few days while he 'found his feet' in London. They had plenty of room for him, she had stated firmly.[3])

[2] Another of Crowley's triumphs. It should not have been possible for travelling hundreds of miles per hour in a two hundred tonne machine that kept itself seven miles up in the air by confusing the air currents to be boring, and yet it was.

[3] The fact that the bookshop had had only a tiny, two and a half room flat attached before Crowley said so was immaterial.

What did they look like now, Warlock wondered. Did Aziraphale wear cardigans? Did he still have the sideburns? Maybe he had a  _ beard _ . Maybe  _ Nanny _ had a beard. Maybe Nanny wore fancy black suits. He hoped her hair was the same colour. Nanny's hair was beautiful. 

What would they think of him? With his worn-out jeans and his shapeless indeterminate grey thing and his boring brown hair that was getting just a bit too long for his usual boring haircut. His fringe kept getting in his eyes. He hadn't exactly been crushing his enemies beneath his heels and reshaping the world to his will. Just...being stubborn, and finding ways around things when stubbornness wasn’t enough. And he'd tried to have love and reverence for all living creatures, but it was difficult when Mr Perkins was such a git. And mosquitos, he'd never got the hang of loving mosquitos.

By the time the plane landed, Warlock was nervous enough that he didn’t even bother trying to get up and jostle in the queue to leave. Instead, he waited, fiddling with the hem of his indeterminate grey thing and thinking very hard about how long flights always left him wishing for a shower. But eventually, he couldn’t stay any longer without being weird and a nuisance to the crew, so he made himself get up. At least it meant he had a shorter wait at the baggage claim for any luggage to show up. And then he had to go through Customs and everything, which had a stupidly long queue, except for some weird reason it was moving really fast. (Apparently they were doing a side-by-side comparison of human staff and digital check-ins? Warlock suspected an Act of Nanny was involved.) 

And then he was through, and headed for the meeting point, and soon he was going to see Nanny and Brother Francis for the first time in  _ eight years _ , and all of a sudden he found himself thinking that maybe it wasn’t real, maybe it wasn’t going to happen, maybe he’d made it all up somehow and there wasn’t going to be anyone here and he’d be all on his own like he’d been since he was a kid…

And then he spotted a flash of bright red, and someone called out, “Warlock!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's possible I am a tiny bit mean...


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The reunion

Picture a woman who is the embodiment of the word ‘stern’. Her bright red hair has been curled into a set of neat waves that no doubt would remain perfectly fixed in place if a bomb went off. (Her air conveys that she has seen bombs go off in the War, and was not impressed by them). Her clothing was most likely chosen for its qualities of being ‘sensible’ and ‘hard-wearing’: a black tweed suit, the skirt long enough to reach her shins; thick black stockings; black loafers with no heel at all; a black felt hat; and a black shirt buttoned all the way to the collar. Her only concessions to style are a dark red ribbon tied in a bow at her collar, and a pair of sunglasses with perfectly round lenses. (It seems likely that the sunglasses, too, serve a practical purpose, although she wears them constantly, regardless of light level.) When she speaks, her voice is low, and every word is precise. To her charges (for this is a woman that could not possibly be anything other than a nanny or a governess), her tone is gentle, but firm; to all others, it communicates her absolute certainty that they will do as she expects them to do, without doubt or hesitation.

Standing next to her, picture a man - an old country fellow - somewhat shorter and rounder, with a complexion permanently reddened by decades working outdoors. His hair is pure white, and starting to desert his scalp, but making up for it by its abundance in his bushy sideburns and eyebrows. He has an overbite, but a kind smile; his hands are strong, with dirt worn into the creases. His clothing is hidden and protected from dirt by a loose, well-loved smock, except for a light blue cravat with ends that hung loose instead of being tucked in. His head is covered by a battered brown hat with a few holes in it - but if they were pointed out to him, he would almost certainly reply cheerfully, “Tha’s as may be, but it works just as well, don’t it?”

This is what Warlock had pictured, whenever he imagined Nanny Ashtoreth and Brother Francis over the years. The two people he encountered in the airport, however, looked quite different.

The person on the right was tall, lean, and wearing tight-fitting black jeans that made him look even taller and leaner. With his hands tucked into the top of his pockets, he looked like he was sprawling on something. Standing completely still, he looked like he was swaggering. The top half of his bright red hair was tied into a small bun, and a good third of the people walking past started considering growing their hair so they could try that style, and hope to look even half as cool as him. His smirk suggested he was aware of the attention, and didn’t care. His sunglasses hid his eyes, but his entire posture suggested he’d just made a cocky joke, and then winked.

The person on the left was only a little shorter, but didn’t look nearly as tall. He didn’t look lean, either, having the sort of figure that is usually described as ‘comfortable’. Unlike the first person, he was wearing no black at all - instead, his old-fashioned suit, bow tie, and coat were entirely in shades of beige and pale blue. His hair was nearly white, but not from age; the faintest hint of yellow marked it as the sort of blond almost only ever seen on young children. He stood primly, hands clasped behind his back, but nevertheless his body expressed the same delighted smile that shone from his face.

Warlock, once he’d looked at them for the half-second necessary to notice the differences, stumbled to a stop. “...Nanny?” he asked doubtfully. “Is that you?”

“Of course it’s me!” replied the person on the right, stepping forward with open arms. Despite the visual differences, his voice was the same one Warlock remembered from his childhood, complete with a soft Scottish burr.[1] “Look how you’ve grown!”

[1] Crowley, like all demons (and angels), was omnilingual, having been created long before the Tower of Babel mucked everything up. People heard him speaking in whatever language and accent they expected to hear. You, for example, might generally hear him speaking English with a Received Pronunciation accent. _Unlike_ most angels and demons however, Crowley was also multilingual: he had, over the millennia, learned dozens of human languages and dialects well enough to speak them deliberately, and it was his ability to do so which had persuaded the Dowling household that he was, in fact, Scottish. 

Relaxing, Warlock stepped forward, then dropped his suitcase and ran, throwing himself into Nanny’s arms. (Nanny was not generally demonstrative, but she had never denied him a hug when he sought one out.) “I missed you,” he confessed, the words somewhat muffled by her jacket. “I…” 

He ran out of words after that, but Nanny seemed to understand, holding him close and shushing him like she always used to. “It’s alright, my dear,” she murmured. “Nanny’s got you. It’s quite alright.”

After a couple of minutes of this, the other person - the one who must have been Brother Francis, the one who was called Aziraphale now - cleared his throat and said gently, “Perhaps we could move this to a more comfortable location? We clearly have quite a lot of catching up to do.”[2]

[2] Aziraphale, as a bookseller, required a working knowledge of human languages, and he’d always preferred to make the effort anyway. _He_ spoke with Received Pronunciation not because people expected to hear it, but because he actually intended to.

Warlock jerked his head around, staring. “Brother  _ Francis?” _ he blurted out. “You…”

Nanny chuckled. “You weren’t wrong about him being in disguise,” she told Warlock fondly. “This is much more normal for him - unless he has a reason, he’ll probably look exactly like this for the next four hundred years.”

That was...a lot to process. “I think...going somewhere else is probably a good idea,” Warlock admitted, biting his lip. “Hang on. I’ll just...get my bag.”

“That’s quite alright,” Nanny reassured him, sauntering alongside him as he went to retrieve his suitcase. (She did  _ not _ use to walk like that!) “We’ll head back to the bookshop, have some wine while we catch up.”

“Crowley!” Brother - Aziraphale - objected. “You aren’t planning on getting young Warlock  _ drunk _ , are you?”

It was almost like they’d swapped. Aziraphale was so...self-contained, and proper. While Nanny just gave Aziraphale a - a  _ saucy _ grin and managed to shrug with half her torso without taking her hands out of her pockets. “He’s of age,” she pointed out. “And really, this whole ‘drinking age’ thing is very twentieth century. A millennium ago he’d’ve been having alcohol with every meal since he could toddle.”

“That is  _ not _ the same thing as getting him drunk,” Aziraphale said primly. (His eyes were sparkling, though, and Warlock was reminded that Nanny had always been Brother Francis’ favourite person.)

And then they stepped out onto the street and there was a classic black car parked in the cab rank, and Nanny snapped her fingers and the boot popped open. “Come on then, Warlock,” she said cheerfully. “Pop your things in and we’ll be going.”

Warlock did, a small smile creeping across his face as he watched the two of them banter about the history of drinking. He wasn’t quite certain what was going to happen next, but he was absolutely sure it was going to be fun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What do you think? Did I effectively describe Crowley and Aziraphale?
> 
> Your comments are all fantastic <3


	6. Chapter 6

Warlock found himself revising that opinion when, upon reaching a beautifully old and cluttered bookshop on the corner of a busy London street, Nanny and Aziraphale exchanged a Look. (Not a ‘cease being so intolerable in my presence or you will cease to  _ be _ ’ Look, but a ‘how are we going to start the Serious Conversation we’re about to have’ Look.) 

“Make us some tea, would you, Aziraphale?” Nanny suggested, leading Warlock through the bookshop to a back room and gesturing to the chair at the desk. “Sit down, Warlock, you aren’t going to like this part. It needs to be said, and you need to hear it, but that doesn’t make it easier.”

Warlock bit his lip and sat, holding his backpack in his lap to shield him. “What is it?” he asked warily.

“The thing is,” Nanny began, pacing restlessly around the small and cluttered space. “The thing is...we didn’t think we’d actually, you know…” He seemed to stumble on his words, making a set of sounds that are extremely difficult to describe on paper.

“Love you,” Aziraphale said firmly, coming in with a tray and setting it down on the desk. “Here you are, Warlock - do take a biscuit, they are absolutely  _ scrumptious _ .” Taking a cup and saucer (and a couple of biscuits), he sat down on the sofa opposite Warlock. “We took on your care because we had received...signs, as it were, that your upbringing was going to be terribly important - signs which, as it happened, we misinterpreted.”

(“That’s one way to put it,” Nanny muttered darkly.)

“So the fact that we came to care for you so very much took us quite by surprise.”

That was...well. Warlock distracted himself with tea and a biscuit (they really  _ were _ good) while he tried to work that out. Nanny and Brother Francis really had loved him: good. They hadn’t come to take care of  _ him _ : not good. They’d thought he was someone special, when he was really just Warlock: not good. But they’d...stayed anyway? 

“When did you find out?” he asked. “That I wasn’t important?”

“Oh, everyone’s importa-”

“When you turned eleven,” Nanny - Crowley - interrupted. “That’s not why we left. We spent about a week figuring out who the other kid was, and it turned out his parents had done a perfectly good job, and all he needed was a bit of a pep talk.” He perched on the arm of the sofa, leaning forward to meet Warlock’s eyes. (Or at least, Warlock assumed he was. He couldn’t actually tell, because of the sunglasses.) “By the end of that week, I knew that I’d spent those years in  _ exactly _ the right place, my dear. Call it serendipity - we met you because of a Great Plan, but you won us over all by yourself.”

It helped. A bit. “Why tell me now?”

“Well, we can’t really go around  _ lying _ to you - “ Aziraphale began, but got cut off again.

“Shut up, angel, we lie all the time.” Crowley shrugged, leaning back and stretching his arm out over the back of the sofa. “We like free will, though. And it’s hard to make your own decisions if you don’t have the knowledge to make them.” A corner of his mouth quirked into a smile as he looked at Warlock. “Not that this is everything. But this is the part you really needed to know.”

Warlock hugged his backpack a little tighter. It was like, like finding out you were an 'accident'. Even if your parents loved you after, it was a jolt to realise you hadn't been what they had wanted or planned, like a missing step on your way down the stairs. "I think I might...take a nap," he said quietly. "Catch up on the jet lag."

Crowley nodded evenly. "First room on the left at the top of the stairs," he said. "Bathroom's at the end of the hall. Don't worry about your suitcase, we'll bring it up later."

Warlock got up, shouldering his backpack and putting his cup and saucer down on the desk. "Um. Thanks for the tea," he mumbled. "And the biscuit."

"You're very welcome, dear boy." Aziraphale smiled reassuringly at him, standing up to point out the way to the stairs. "Rest well, and dream of whatever you like best."

("That went well," Crowley muttered, once Warlock was out of earshot.

"I think it went quite nicely," Aziraphale replied. "All things considered.")

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Your comments are fantastic - please keep them coming!


	7. Chapter 7

Warlock dreamed of the woods near the embassy, where Nanny used to take him walking as a child. Except that in the dream, he wasn’t a child; he was himself, his hair grown long and tangled and wild, his clothes ragged, as if he’d been wearing them out in the woods every day for years. He could hear crows calling in the trees, and then he reached the edge of the woods and saw an unfamiliar meadow ahead of him, full of untamed grass and wildflowers, and a huge old apple tree. He climbed it in a flash (as you do in dreams), the bark rough and warm against his hands, and found a hidden nook between two branches as big around as his torso, like the one he hid in at school when he wanted to read and not be bothered by anyone, and settled there, in the warm sunshine, surrounded by the smell of apples.

The smell stayed when he woke up, and he came downstairs to find Aziraphale eating apple strudel as Crowley watched him indulgently, an empty plate on his knee. (It was somewhat disconcerting to see how _expressive_ Crowley was with his body language, considering how reserved Nanny had always been.)

“Warlock!” Aziraphale cried out, beaming at him. “Would you like a strudel? They are _very_ good. I hope you slept well?”

He had actually. He’d expected to be tossing and turning with all his new knowledge, but it had sort of...settled in now. “I did, thanks,” he said politely, lingering in the doorway. Now that he was less upset, he was starting to notice his surroundings a bit more: namely, the _thousands_ of books, none of them the same. He reached out, his fingertips just grazing the leather-bound spine of one. "These are amazing."

"Why thank you," Aziraphale said warmly. "If you see anything you'd like to read, just tell me, and I'll explain how to take care of it while you do. Some of them are quite fragile."

"Some of them predate the printing press," Crowley muttered, clearly talking to Aziraphale rather than Warlock.

"Nothing in the public areas, but back here, yes," Aziraphale agreed.

Warlock swallowed, the gift he'd brought for Brother Francis seeming rather pathetic by comparison. Maybe he'd just keep it, and not embarrass himself. He looked around, trying to come up with a change of subject, and one miraculously [1] occurred to him.

[1] It wasn’t, actually.

“Hang on a minute,” he said. “If you’re - if you thought I had some sort of Destiny, does that mean that all those things you used to tell me, about destroying the world and everything - they were _real?_ ”

Crowley exchanged a glance with Aziraphale. “Yup.”

“And the other kid, the one I wasn’t, were they really…?”

“Yup.”

“And they - they didn’t…?”

“Still here, aren’t we?”

Warlock sat down hard, on a miraculously[2] convenient chair right behind him. "But...what if it ,had, been me?" he asked, suddenly overwhelmed by memories of all the things Nanny used to tell him would happen when he came into his power. "What if I'd destroyed everything?"

[2] This one actually was a miracle.

Aziraphale smiled gently at him. "We rather hoped that, between the two of us, our influences would balance out and you'd decide not to."

"I was assigned to make sure you did, and I recruited Aziraphale to make sure you didn't," Crowley added. "That was the plan, anyway."

Warlock thought about that for a while, and the things they'd mentioned about the timing, and then remembered the weird man who'd shown up on the trip to Israel the week after his eleventh birthday and grimaced. "I was a little shit when I was eleven, though," he said, horrified.

Crowley grinned. "Just about everyone is," he replied. "I think it's endearing."

"You would," Aziraphale muttered.

Warlock worried at the hem of his indeterminate shapeless grey thing as he had an even bigger realisation. “Does that mean...god, and religion, and the bible...they’re all _real?”_

“God’s real,” Crowley said promptly, which didn’t make Warlock feel any better. “Religion and the Bible, those are human things. They exist, but that doesn’t mean they’re accurate.”

Aziraphale tutted. “Now then, Crowley, the Bible has lots of very valuable things to say.”

“And just as many horrible translation errors,” Crowley replied, rolling his eyes.[3] “Nah, for my money, the Jews have got it closest. Read the texts thoroughly, interpret contextually, and make up your own mind.” He smirked. “And if you don’t think God’s got it right, then say so.”

[3] At least, Warlock assumed he was rolling his eyes, considering the rather complex shrug Crowley had used to communicate that effect. 

“Crowley!”

“Oh come on, angel, are you that surprised I’m in favour of them deciding? I went to all that effort to give them knowledge of good and evil; I expect them to use it.”

Something about that last sentence caught Warlock’s attention. When Crowley had said ‘knowledge of good and evil’, Warlock’s _brain_ had heard ‘Knowledge of Good and Evil’. Which seemed different, in some vague, inexplicable way.[4] And that started a cascade of other thoughts, little hints and oddities from over the years, bits of information he’d picked up from religion studies at school,[5] all the Special things he remembered Nanny and Brother Francis doing… And then he looked up, and Crowley’s glasses had slipped down his nose just far enough to reveal a yellow glow, and a wink.

[4] One might even call it ‘ineffable’.

[5] There is nothing particularly surprising about the fact that the boarding school Mr Dowling chose for Warlock taught ‘Christianity’ and ‘the Bible’ alongside its various opinions about manliness and patriotism. The relationship between the school’s definition of those words and their wider meaning is left to the reader to imagine.

“Wh-when you say you gave ‘them’ knowledge of good and evil,” Warlock said hesitantly, not sure if he _really_ wanted the answer, “who’s ‘them’?”

Crowley tossed him an apple (which hadn’t been there a moment ago), and Warlock fumbled as he caught it. “You’re a smart kid,” he said. “You work it out.”[6]

[6] It would be easy to think that Crowley was just being dramatic. This is incorrect. He _was_ being dramatic, because he liked to be. But he was _also_ making sure that Warlock was ready for the knowledge he was asking for. Human brains are self-protective: if they are confronted with something they cannot comprehend, they will simply refuse to contemplate it. This has resulted in the propagation of a lot of very silly ideas over the centuries, but as Crowley would rather Warlock _didn’t_ have a breakdown due to the realisation that his entire understanding of the universe was wrong, Crowley was generally in favour of this particular limitation. 

Warlock stared at the apple in his hands, red and shiny and perfect, like the ones in his dream. “You’re the Serpent of Eden,” he said slowly, his voice wobbling and high-pitched. “You - Someone - Hell sent the Serpent of Eden to be my Nanny because they thought I’d be the Antichrist?”

“Me and Aziraphale have been on Earth since the Beginning,” Crowley explained. “Me wiling, him thwarting; me tempting, him blessing. We quite like humanity, at this point. You’ve got imagination - and you’d be surprised how rare that is, Downstairs.”

“Or Upstairs, even,” Aziraphale agreed, looking like he’d unexpectedly taken a bite of something bitter. “We decided we’d rather everything keep going...and in the end, we got our way.”

Crowley snorted. “That’s putting a lot of emphasis on our part of things. Our way was got; we didn’t have all that much to do with it.”

“Oh alright,” Aziraphale conceded. “But one way or the other, Heaven and Hell have stopped interfering with us, which is just lovely. So you don’t have to worry about that kind of thing, Warlock. We’re just...unusually magical godfathers.”

Warlock looked up, the word ‘godfather’ making a corner of his mouth twitch. “I guess that was your idea?” he asked Aziraphale. It seemed like it would be. Aziraphale being some sort of...opposite to Crowley.

“Mine, actually,” Crowley admitted. “When I was persuading him to come with me and help me raise you.”

“Oh.” Warlock looked between the two of them, trying to figure out what to make of all this. (It would be really convenient, he thought, if he had a friend to talk to about it, but all he had was Crowley and Aziraphale.) “I… Isn’t it a bit… Why be my godfathers, if I’m not anyone special?”

Aziraphale gestured Crowley into silence and sat forward. “You are special because we love you,” he said firmly. “Ten years may not be very long, but it’s long enough. A hundred years from now, I want to remember you as someone I helped and took care of because of that love, not someone I let go of once they were no longer part of the Grand Plan.”

Crowley shifted, looking stiff and awkward. “Uhh...yeah. What he said.”

“Oh.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, Crowley is an absolute drama queen
> 
> (ETA: for some reason, I managed to miss copying over the first paragraph when I originally published this. Fixed now - 26/7/19)


	8. Chapter 8

Crowley helpfully distracted Warlock from his minor existential crisis by announcing that they were going to go out for dinner and he’d better comb his hair - did he need any bobby pins?

“Oh, are we?” said Aziraphale, looking charmed.

“Well it’s not like either of us can cook, and humans generally eat a substantial meal at least once a day,” Crowley pointed out.

Warlock ducked his head, feeling suddenly self-conscious. “Are we going somewhere fancy?” he asked tentatively. “Should I...get changed?”

Crowley looked at him over his sunglasses. “I think,” he said, sounding like Nanny again, “that you should wear whatever suits you best. And I rather suspect you’re already wearing it.”

Tensing up, Warlock nodded. It - maybe the indeterminate shapeless grey thing didn’t suit his  _ body _ best, but it suited  _ him _ best.

“Then comb your hair and we’ll get going,” Nanny said firmly, a comb appearing in her hand as it always used to do. (Except he used to assume she just kept a whole lot of useful things in her pockets, and now he suspected he knew better.)

It was a nice dinner. Crowley told him to get whatever he liked, so he started to order the steak, and then she told him to get what he  _ really _ liked so he got the gnocchi instead. Crowley didn’t eat all that much, but kept up a rambling, bickering conversation with Aziraphale through all three courses, showing no signs of impatience at either of them taking their time. (Warlock actually kind of appreciated them keeping up a conversation that didn’t require his contributions. It was better than constantly having to answer questions about himself, and he didn’t have much to say, anyway.) 

And then they got back to the bookshop and Warlock realised that, revelations[1] aside, the evening had been pretty much everything he could have hoped for: Nanny and Brother Francis were still the same, really, and they had loved him and did love him, and they treated him like an adult who had the sense and the right to make his own choices and do what he wanted. And he decided that what he wanted was to give them the gifts he’d planned, and tell them how important they were. To him. Not generally. They probably knew that bit.[2]

[1] One might even say ‘Revelations’.

[2] It was sweet of Warlock to think so, but on this point, he was entirely wrong.

So he excused himself for a bit and retrieved the two wrapped packages from his backpack upstairs, spent a few minutes dawdling on the way down the stairs trying to come up with a way to not feel awkward about it, then shook his head, called on the stubbornness he’d spent years practicing, and marched into Aziraphale’s back room to hand him his present.

By the way Aziraphale startled, one hand flying to his chest as the other accepted the package, he wasn’t expecting anything of the kind. “Oh! What’s this, my dear?” he asked. (Although Warlock was sure he could tell that it was a) a gift, and b) a book. Wrapping paper can’t really hide the book-ness of a book.) 

“It’s to thank you,” Warlock said, his tongue feeling heavy and clumsy in his mouth. “For being Brother Francis, I mean. It’s not...I mean, maybe you’ve already got a copy, it’s a British author, and it’s new, so it’s not as valuable as anything here, but I got it signed at least, and I guess I thought you might...like it.”

But Aziraphale, meanwhile, had carefully stripped off the paper (folding it neatly and setting it aside for later) and examined the book (front and back cover, flyleafs, and title page in turn), and was now beaming in delight. “This is lovely!” he exclaimed, turning to show the book to Crowley. “Look, Crowley - it’s a poetic biography of Saint Francis, what a wonderful idea! A first edition, and signed by the author with such a lovely inscription, too.”[3]

[3] The inscription, specially requested by Warlock, read ‘To Aziraphale, who has love for all God’s creation’.

Warlock shrugged, feeling even more awkward now that his gift was being received with such effusive thanks. “I thought, if you picked the name, maybe you liked him.”

“Oh, Francis was a lovely fellow,” Aziraphale said warmly. “And remarkably brave with it, too.” His expression faded. “It takes such bravery to be kind, at times.”

Crowley reached out for the book, raising his eyebrows. “Give us a look, then,” he said. “And don’t worry about it being new, Warlock - half the books in here were purchased new.”

“It’s not so many as that,” Aziraphale said fussily, but that sad look on his face disappeared, and he let Crowley take the book. “Regardless, this is a  _ wonderful _ gift, and I will treasure it.” He glanced at Warlock’s other hand with a sly smile. “Did you bring something for Crowley as well?”

“I did, yeah.” This one was harder. Hard to give up, as well as hard to give. But he believed - no, he  _ knew _ \- it was the right gift for Nanny Ashtoreth. 

As the paper pulled away to reveal the wishbone necklace inside, Crowley and Aziraphale stiffened, staring. Crowley took his sunglasses off just to stare harder.

“Do you remember Crowbones?” Warlock blurted out, desperate to cut the tension. “That crow I found when I was six that we took to a taxidermist and then you brought back the skeleton for me to keep?[4] Mum wouldn’t let me take him with me when we moved, but I unwired this part and hid it, and then I, um, kept it,[5] because it was a reminder of how I grew up and how you really were that weird and I didn’t just imagine it, and, well…”

[4] Crowbones provided an important lesson on the inevability of death; a practical illustration of anatomy; and most importantly for six-year-old Warlock, an introduction to the taxidermist’s tank of flesh-eating beetles.

[5] As a matter of fact, the only thing that had stopped Warlock from wearing it constantly was his fear of it breaking. He had carried it with him, carefully wrapped and hidden, whenever he could for the last seven years. This had left a rather dramatic psychic impression on it, which is what was making Crowley and Aziraphale stare.

Crowley - no, Nanny - stood, strode over, and wrapped Warlock in her arms. “You are a very dear child,” she murmured, “and you honour me with your gift. But,” She pulled back, meeting Warlock’s gaze, “I want you to keep it.” Bringing the wishbone between then, she snapped her fingers. “There,” she said. “It won’t break now, not unless you’re trying to break it. And if you do, I’ll know. So wear it, and if you need me, use it.”

Nanny was starting to look blurry - no, the world was - no, that was tears in his eyes. “Yes, Nanny,” he whispered, reaching up to accept the last relic of Crowbones. “I promise.”

“Very good,” Nanny said firmly, and even if she _was_ a demon, when she kissed his forehead it felt like a blessing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The book Warlock gives Aziraphale is a real book: _Francis: A Life in Songs_ , by Ann Wroe.
> 
> If you do not have an unusually special nanny, please don't collect bits of bird that you find in the woods (or elsewhere). To prevent trade in bird parts that has historically done enormous ecological damage, collection of and trade in bird parts and eggs is legally restricted in the UK (and the USA, and a number of other places), and often requires a special license, if it is allowed at all.
> 
> This chapter feels a bit like an ending, but at the same time, Warlock has a lot of potential as a character. What would you like to see? Do you think it would make more sense as a continuation of this work or a sequel? Or do you think I should leave the story here?


	9. Announcement

There's a sequel!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for your lovely, encouraging comments! Here's what you told me:
> 
> \- It feels complete  
>  \- You want more  
>  \- More Warlock gender feels  
>  \- What happens with the wishbone?
> 
> ...plus various other ideas for topics to cover. This particular sequel will NOT address the wishbone, but hopefully it will provide some satisfying gender-exploration moments.


End file.
